Bilhah picks up a faded blossom and crushes it between her fingers. “If people liked her — loved her — she would not be so afraid”

Katerina pushes up against her as they walk to the afternoon prayer class and lowers her voice to an undertone. “That girl who is teaching you.”

“Mmm?”

“Have you seen the way she wears her hair?”

Bilhah searches her mind to remember.

“She has a twist on the side.”

Bilhah tries to remember the significance of this. “She is imitating—”

“She is not in our camp.” It is a hiss, with a press of Bilhah’s arm to emphasize the point.

Katerina recites: “Yellow onyx jewelry is the aunt of the Sultan. Aquamarine rings or bracelets shows that you follow Hurrem Sultan, for this is her favorite color. And hair with a twist in the side is copying Hurrem Sultan’s daughter Mihrimah.”

“Some say that this is safest,” Bilhah counters.

They pass through an ornate doorway and into a large room, overlooking the sunken garden.

“Why?”

“If anyone questions them, they can simply say that they admire her youth, for they, too, are youths. Mihrima is only 13 years old, after all. And besides, to admire the daughter is to admire the mother, who raised her.”

“I have heard differently.”

Bilhah looks up. What is wrong with Katerina today? Usually, it is she who is suspicious.

“In a year or two she will make a stupendous marriage. And so her mother is afraid of her. For soon enough, she, too, will be vying to rule through her husband.”

They settle down onto their mats and the sufi sage wraps his cloak around him and begins. Bilhah tries not to fall asleep, but Katerina watches the sage and listens carefully, and when it comes to the actual prayers, she prostrates herself on the ground as the others, while Bilhah slips into a nook by the window, so that nobody see her closed lips.

The next day, at her lesson with Aisha in the garden, Bilhah asks if she is afraid to show allegiance to the daughter over the mother. Aisha writes down a word for Bilhah to puzzle out. She hands her the parchment, and then grows pensive.

“The closer you are to the top, the more fearful you become.”